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His troubled eyes were gazing at the wall about a metre
above the level of Winston’s head. He was shoeless; large,
dirty toes were sticking out of the holes in his socks. He
was also several days away from a shave. A scrubby beard
covered his face to the cheekbones, giving him an air of
ruffianism that went oddly with his large weak frame and
nervous movements.
Winston roused hirnself a little from his lethargy. He
must speak to Ampleforth, and risk the yell from the tele-
screen. It was even conceivable that Ampleforth was the
bearer of the razor blade.
‘Ampleforth,’ he said.
There was no yell from the telescreen. Ampleforth
paused, mildly startled. His eyes focused themselves slowly
on Winston.
‘Ah, Smith!’ he said. ‘You too!’
‘What are you in for?’
‘To tell you the truth—’ He sat down awkwardly on the
bench opposite Winston. ‘There is only one offence, is there
not?’ he said.
‘And have you committed it?’
‘Apparently I have.’
He put a hand to his forehead and pressed his temples for
a moment, as though trying to remember something.
‘These things happen,’ he began vaguely. ‘I have been
able to recall one instance—a possible instance. It was an
indiscretion, undoubtedly. We were producing a definitive
edition of the poems of Kipling. I allowed the word ‘God’ to
remain at the end of a line. I could not help it!’ he added al-